House of Ghosts (30 page)

“Tommy, we have company,” one of the young females said, pointing to the door.

Tommy slowly turned, abroad smile crossed his face. “Captain Swedge.”

Preston was alarmed by Tommy’s appearance. Coal black hair, scraggly and tussled, hadn’t been washed or combed in days. The Princeton grad had forsaken his clean shaven ways for a Fu Manchu mustache. “Any place we can talk?” Preston asked. He removed his gloves and unbuttoned his coat. In contrast to the outside, the kitchen was stifling hot.

Tommy finished stirring a fish stew, put down the ladle, and wiped his hands on his apron already streaked with blood and oil. “Come on,” he said, motioning to an open interior door. With a distinct limp of his left foot,
Tommy led the way to a storeroom.

Preston followed. “Make yourself comfortable,” Tommy said, taking a seat on a sack of flour. “Captain. Congratulations are in order.”

Preston sheepishly smiled. “I’m glad you’re out of Santa Anita.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t have wanted to spend the winter months in balmy southern California.” Tommy removed his pipe from his pant pocket. He struck a wood match and pulled deeply on the pipe. “I would have sent a thank you note, but I didn’t think it would have looked to good at War Department.”

“I didn’t know you cook,” Preston said, wiping dust off a rickety stool.

“I don’t, but I also don’t sew or do wood working. I had the opportunity to work in the infirmary, but emptying bedpans didn’t appeal to me.” He tamped the smoldering tobacco with his finger. “Do you know we have our own orphanage?”

Preston didn’t answer. Tommy continued, “All Nisei orphans in the restricted zone, even half-Japanese babies living in Caucasian foster homes, are sent here. Uncle Sam can’t be too careful—you never know when a toddler might turn out to be a spy or a saboteur. What brings you here, Captain Swedge?”

“I want to offer a way out of here,” Preston said.

“A position with Sterling Swedge. Hot dig-it-tee! I’ll pack my things and kiss my wife goodbye,” Tommy said with a sneer.

“I couldn’t get that,” Preston laughed. “An all Nisei regiment is being formed. Volunteer and see the world.”

Tommy struck another match, working another cloud of smoke from the pipe. “You’re a few steps behind. We had a recruiter here a couple of days ago. I’ve seen the loyalty oath.”

“It’s a formality,” Preston weakly protested.

“Did you have to sign a loyalty oath?” Tommy charged. “Being a member of America First isn’t my idea of a patriotic American. The world was going up in smoke as you and that shitbag Clark Johnson protested.”

“Take the time to reconsider,” Preston counseled.

Tommy pushed off the flour sack, signaling the meeting was over. “Maybe you will honor the block by staying for lunch. I have karei—boiled flat fish simmered in a soy sauce based soup and horenso ohitashi—Japanese-style spinach salad.”

Preston took in the view from Assistant Secretary John McCloy’s fifth floor office in the newly constructed Pentagon. Across the Potomac, the Washington Monument glistened against a cloudless sky.

The expansive suite was divided into three sections: his personal workspace
featuring a desk constructed from teak salvaged from the deck of the sunken battleship Arizona; a conference area able to accommodate twelve, and the “setup room,” an ensemble of four brown leather winged back chairs surrounding a claw foot shin high table where McCloy could pick a visitor’s pocket without being detected. The table was originally owned by Edwin Stanton, Abraham Lincoln’s secretary of war.

“I’m still getting used to having all members of the department in one place,” McCloy said.

Ground for the new home of the War Department was broken on September 11, 1941, with construction completed in approximately sixteen months at a cost of $83 million. Its unusual shape resulted from the fact that its originally intended site, Arlington Farms, fronted on Arlington Ridge Road and the Arlington Memorial Bridge approach, which intersected at an angle of approximately 108 degrees, the angle of a regular pentagon.

McCloy lifted the lid on his cigar humidor, retrieved a Cuban delight, and offered one to Preston. “I’ll pass. My throat is not A-1. Picked up a bug in Hawaii.” He went through a coughing spree.

“The original location was better, but Roosevelt didn’t want the view of the city obstructed from Arlington Cemetery.” McCloy lit the stogie and walked to the windows. The immense building was built in a series of concentric circles. “From your reports, things have reached equilibrium out west.”

Preston rasped, “Dillon Myer has done a great job of finalizing the fifteen camps.” Myer oversaw the completion of relocation centers in California, Utah, Idaho, Arizona, Colorado, and Arkansas after replacing Milton Eisenhower. “A hundred thousand Japanese-Americans are under guard.”

“Where do we stand with the formation of the Nisei Voluntary Regiment?” McCloy asked, exhaling a balloon size cloud of smoke. Worried about cases coming before the Supreme Court, McCloy envisioned forming a regiment totally manned by Japanese-Americans as proof of the government’s good faith efforts to display the loyalty of those interned, and hence their internment was not grounded by racial prejudice.

Preston fought back a sneeze. “Not on firm ground.” He removed a handkerchief from his dress jacket and wiped his nose. “There isn’t a groundswell rushing to signup. The loyalty oath and the disavowal of any allegiance to the emperor of Japan is insulting to many, and there’s a rumor going around the camps that those joining will be used in suicide missions.” He braced himself for McCloy’s response.

“Bullshit, one hundred percent.” McCloy returned to his chair. “It’s been designated
the Four-Four-Two Regiment. It
will
be staffed.”

“Less than a thousand have volunteered from a target number of three thousand,” Preston said between wipes of his nose. “Two thousand Nisei in Hawaii will be more than willing to join, but General Dewitt isn’t on board.”

“Dewitt wouldn’t trust his grandmother if she put her eyeliner on a slant,” McCloy grunted. “The Four-Four-Two isn’t going to the Pacific. They’ll be going to Italy.”

The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Meiklejohn is here,” Mrs. Higgins said.

Alexander Meiklejohn was the former president of Amherst College and longtime acquaintance of McCloy. Meiklejohn in his position with the American Civil Liberties Union was a monitor of government policy concerning Japanese Americans. “Send him in. Florence, be a love and scurry up a pot of coffee,” McCloy said.

At seventy-one, Meiklejohn smashed across the threshold with his bowler hat, silver tipped walking stick in hand, and a black wool topcoat draped over his arm. His high forehead rose to a brownish gray splash of hair parted down the middle. Gold wire rim glasses perched on a nose that accentuated his gaunt face.

McCloy met Meiklejohn in the middle of the office. “Dean Meiklejohn,” McCloy said deferentially. “What a pleasant surprise.” He led his visitor to the “setup room.” McCloy wasn’t surprised by Meiklejohn’s call, requesting an appointment—military intelligence reported Meiklejohn’s appearance in the city the day before. The ACLU was on the subversive watch list. “Come sit.”

McCloy made the introductions. “I attended your lecture at Princeton during my sophomore year,” Preston said. “One of my fondest college memories.”

Meiklejohn placed his hat and coat on one of the chairs, taking the adjacent seat. McCloy took the opposing chair. Preston stood. “November, 1939,” Meiklejohn said without hesitation. A champion of free speech and civil liberties, his address covered the necessity of open discourse in a free and democratic society, no matter how offensive and controversial. Meiklejohn added fuel to the fire for Clark Johnson and the debating club demands for a say in booking campus speakers.

Florence Higgins carried in a carafe of coffee and a tray of doughnuts, putting them on the Stanton table. “Captain Swedge, a cup of tea might be better for your throat.”

Florence Higgins was military through and through. Her father fought at Gettysburg, losing a leg on Little Round Top with the Twentieth Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment. Her lawyer husband was serving in the Pacific Theatre on the staff of General MacArthur. The sixty-four year old keeper of the flame had let
Preston use a bedroom in her Georgetown home while he looked for an apartment in the over-rented city.

“Not necessary,” Preston said, trying not to look uncomfortable. There was the issue of daughter Margaret. Three years younger than the dashing Princeton man, Peggy had fallen head over heals and into his bed. Florence wasn’t buying his incessant traveling as an excuse for avoiding her daughter.

McCloy eyed Preston who wasn’t the first officer Florence Higgins tried to fix up with her daughter. “Thank you Mrs. Higgins.” He waited for her to exit. “What brings you across the river?”

“ACLU representatives in California tell me your people are working on a plan to furlough Nisei,” Meiklejohn said. “They feel the conditions are as unconstitutional as the relocations.”

Preston poured three cups of coffee, handing a cup and saucer to Meiklejohn and McCloy. He took his own cup and walked toward the windows, giving McCloy room to operate.

“As luck would have it, Captain Swedge has just returned from the coast where he’s been working on the very program your representatives are concerned about,” McCloy said. “Nothing is set in stone. We want to be fair to those interned.”

“I’ve heard snippets,” Meiklejohn said. “Perhaps if I have the entire picture, the organization’s fears can be allayed.”

McCloy cleared his throat. “Captain…”

Preston put his cup and saucer on the window ledge. “Three kinds of passes will be issued: short-term emergency passes; restricted passes for work gangs to be employed outside of the camps; and indefinite furloughs.”

Meiklejohn dropped three cubes of sugar into his cup. “What are the conditions for the indefinite furloughs?” He stirred the coffee and tapped the saucer twice with his spoon.

“References will need to be obtained, preferably from Caucasians, and each internee will be asked to sign a pledge of allegiance to the United States and agree to serve as an informant regarding any subversive activity, both in the relocation camps and in the communities they will resettle,” Preston paused to blow his nose. “In addition, they will be instructed to stay away from large groups of Japanese and to develop American habits that will help them to be accepted into American society. Finally, those wanting out of the camps will be asked to furnish proof that they have always been loyal to the United States.”

Meiklejohn finished his coffee. McCloy and Preston waited for his reaction. The silence was broken by a teletype machine behind McCloy’s desk spitting out paper tape. The machine, linked to bases around the world, kept the Assistant
Secretary of War on top of breaking events.

Meiklejohn wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief. “Although the conditions placed on furloughs are extensive, they are, I think, essentially reasonable limits arising out of the evacuation situation. I will recommend to the board and the national committee not to mount a direct constitutional challenge.”

McCloy wanted to clap his hands and jump for joy. “These are difficult times for everyone.”

“I appreciate your predicament, John,” Meiklejohn said, gathering his things. “Next time I’m in town, we need to get together to talk about the days of yore.”

Preston escorted Meiklejohn through the outer office to return to find McCloy at the teletype machine. “Son of a bitch!” McCloy exclaimed. “There’s been a riot at Manzanar— two dead, eight wounded. Read it!”

Preston took the printout with trepidation. Since his last stop at Manzanar, the atmosphere of passive resistance had changed to outright defiance. Demonstrations that ended in battles with MPs brought Washington’s permission to engage in deadly force if warnings to disperse went unheeded. He didn’t know the name Heideki Nikajima, but Tommy Shikiro jumped off the yellow grained paper.

JOE SHOVED SIX EMPTY BUDWEISER cans across the dinette table. The air hung heavy with the remains of a pack of Marlboros floating in his morning coffee. He closed the second installment of the Swedge diaries, giving the leather cover a tap with his knuckles. Under the table, Roxy placed her head in his lap. “The old guy was one calculating, cold-hearted bastard,” he said, scratching Roxy behind her ears. “I’m sure of one thing—Paul Rothstein was the main character in his nightmare.”

Roxy cocked her head to the side, yawned and rolled onto her back.
Geopolitical Systems
was long over. He’d push the decision back another day whether to stick it out or put his tail between his legs and slink away. Joe searched his wallet for Dr. Headcase’s card. A picture of his grandfather wagging his finger came up in the shuffle. “Screw you.” He turned the picture face down. “Every family has its designated fuck up.”

Washing the sewer taste out of his mouth with a swig from a bottle of mouth-wash kept in the cabinet housing the glasses, Joe spit into the sink. He didn’t know if a dead Preston Swedge was worse than the live one who had burned his ass for twenty years. Preston was a follower. Joe was convinced that if Herbert Swedge didn’t have a boatload of money, his son would have fallen in with hoods and other low-lifes of the Depression. Preston resisted the bile of his roommate Clark Johnson, but succumbed to the power and trappings of the office of John McCloy. Some men are born bad to the bone, others grow into the role. If Preston could participate in the imprisonment of American citizens based solely on their race and assist in keeping them segregated until the end of the war, what else was he involved with? He had questions on top of questions. And where did Jake Rothstein fit in?